


Buy the Stars

by orphan_account



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: A proverbial 'fuck you', Incest, M/M, also a literal one, so there's that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 13:53:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11381550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Don't think about it. That was it. That was their beginning, middle, and end.Don't think about it.





	Buy the Stars

**Author's Note:**

> All characters depicted are over 18.

"I never wanted another woman to know  
Something about me that you didn't know"  
4:44 - Jay-Z

* * *

 

Don't think about it.

That was it.

That was their beginning, middle, and end. Rick and Morty. Their names exchanged brusquely, bled out of each others throats, like choking out prayers. Rick and Morty and Morty and Rick and sleeping and fucking and Morty absentmindedly running his hand through Rick's dirty hair when watching TV and sharing pot ramen in the ship instead of a dinner with the rest of the Smiths and Morty yelling until his face burned hot and Rick sitting by his desk, taking it, taking all of it because it was just desserts and he was a crook and that's why Morty was yelling at him, because of his inane ability for crime, for unjust actions, and that's why Morty left him and five days later he came back, yelling again, but this time because he'd realized the magnitude of what had happened with the world, because every word was his name, every romantic card had _to Rick_ inscribed inside of it and every song was a testament to time, to love, and the world wasn't alright without him, without the human heap of crap that he couldn't help but to navigate around, an endlessly warm sun that Morty would always spill into like a collapsing comet. Morty was an orbit, bent astray.

That was their story.

Don't think about it.

* * *

It didn't last more than a year.

Starting with a breathed “Just this once,” from delirious lips, sent into an impudent mouth. Rick delved into him. The fever-hot mouth that Morty had seen wrapped around vowels, watching it with equal parts joy and fright. Morty had studied the thin lips for hours, watched them divulge their secrets. He'd followed each movement as they disavowed him three times and praising him four.

“Just once,” he committed, already having his shirt brusquely torn over his shoulders as he held up his arms. Just this once, laying himself flat in front of any desires or concerns. His body's appointed owner was having his way with it, Rick's movements telling of illicit restraint, hesitation. Tipping over, becoming less. The slender, relentless hands around Morty's waist like a vice, wringing out any doubt. Flipping Morty over, carefully but steady. His body, making a space for itself between Morty's legs like it had any business to. His stubble scraped against the insides of his thighs, causing Morty to spasm, shivering, his empty stomach tensed in a long, clamped-up breath. The younger man moaned, a filthy slew of words he had no recollection of picking up. Cold, bloodless, yet hot, every inch of his skin burning with –- shame.

He was bowled over from it, reeling, closing his eyes because of what was being done to him.

Done to him. He'd given in. Given up.

Morty had lingered, had pushed on, had persisted like the stuttering fool he was. Because he was tired. Morty had been tired.

Days.

Days and weeks, ever since the idea had presented itself. Ever since Rick had carelessly put his hand on Morty's back during a negotiation with some kidnappers. A hand on the small of his back, and Morty was in tatters.

Look where being tired got you. It got you fucked. Morty chuckled at the thought and then shook his head dismissively at Rick who'd looked up from Morty's cock. Rick resumed what he'd been doing and whatever words he'd been searching for, Morty couldn't find them.

“Please,” he said, stammering, his fingers clinging impossibly hard to the bed sheet. Trying to keep himself from arching up into the slick mouth and and the restraining hand on his hip. He felt one lubed-up finger entering his ass and he had to clench his teeth together to keep himself from making too much noise. Clenching once, to reaffirm it was still there, earning a heated growl from Rick, “J-just fucking _hold on_.” Nothing was alright until the first finger was followed by a second, stretching, creating a tingle that made his head spin and his stomach churn.

“Please. Rick.” His name, a spell, an alarm, Morty was pulling on every string he had. He tensed around the slowly moving fingers, trying to relay whatever message he could because he couldn't be the only one with a mind-towering, demented obsession. If it was a punishment he would take every second of it, praying for oblivion or an orgasm, whichever came first, and it didn't matter because Rick's fingers were edging around his prostate and a lewd harangue clawed its way out of him, out of some dark corner.

“F-fuck me, Rick,” Morty whined, blushing at the same time, “j-just-.” A severe twist of the fingers, as if to say “I'm considering it,” and Morty huffed, a stuttering defeat, rejoicing in the feel of having his asshole stretched.

Numb yet burning. “I want you in me,” Morty said quietly, as if saying it out loud would make his shame worse. His body trembled as if it was on the verge of giving up, and then starting again. Tossed between the living and the dead within the space of a simple inhale/exhale routine. Gulping down air into his wrecked chest. His jaws hurt from gaping, moaning. He practically purred as Rick positioned himself on Morty's chest, the other heartbeat a wild cavalcade of desire.

Rick kissed him deeply, raw, pulling on Morty's bottom lip as if to teach him a lesson on restraint. “You're pure filth, M-Morty,” he offered, and Morty raised his legs, tensing them around Rick's body, because he was. He was filth, misplaced desire. At no point had he wished to turn out like he did but not a single fiber in his body bore an ounce of regret. There was no shame in him, now that the worst had already happened. There was no shame in him. Only hunger. Only the devastating smell of him, of Rick, heady sweat and after shave flooding his head like an attempted poisoning.

“Yes,” Morty agreed. A millisecond of clarity, as Rick's body weighed just right against his. “Only for you,” he added, grabbing a fistful of white hair. Kissing, force-feeding Rick another agreement. Mauling the truth into him with his lips. He left the truth on Rick's body, statements for him to read later on, a never-ending admission of guilt, poured out over the man's neck. Morty had the truth and he buried it between their bodies, a aching it into the air as he moaned because of pain or pleasure or neither or both.

They rolled over again so that Morty was on top, and he took a second to look down on Rick. The reckless, spiteful, cursing explorer who could get anyone anywhere to agree to anything and there he was, beneath him, Rick's demanding eyes looking back at him. Due to some fallacy in the universe, he looked at Morty as if he was a gift, a mouthful of water in a desert where he'd been dying of thirst. His taut hands stroked tentatively over Morty's hips. Morty was his to do with as he pleased, an empty shell that grew tired of longing. For him, Morty would displace entire galaxies. Only for him. A scientist with yellow teeth and more bad words than good.

* * *

_Two years later_

She was called Anna.

He'd gathered as much from Morty's stale replies. He'd seemed disinterested in sharing any kind of information; crossing his arms, looking away, swallowing down words that he not two years ago would have mindlessly spluttered, anxiously turning to Rick for any validation, to listen to the logical downfall of his valiantly constructed insights. Seeing him like this, completely on his own, was eerie. A shiver went up Rick's back as he regarded Morty, splayed out in the sofa, deeply engrossed in a brick-like book on the neurological system.

Surprising his family, their youngest son had chosen to go to nursing school. Beth was proud, Jerry was surprisingly supportive, Summer thought it had been cool of him to “eschew traditional gender roles, or whatever,” as she'd coughed out over the cigarette she'd been secretly smoking in Rick's lab, completely ignoring any kind of health and safety ruling she might have learned from school. And no one asked Rick what he thought. He shouldn't have any views, at all. He was a mere relative, an astute disaster that no one should turn to for advice, least of all any impressionable young people. They hadn't asked.

Morty had put the admission letter on the table one afternoon, crossing his arms pointedly, nodding at the embossed paper. “I-I'm going to college.”

Rick had been by the kitchen by coincidence, overhearing. His ship had broken before he'd even gotten to the Fexeus galaxy, so he'd turned around, aiming for a quiet night in with one or two bottles of vodka and shit TV before he could finally bother turning out the ceiling lights. He overheard them congratulating Morty, his _Mort_ -, and Rick remained standing for a while. Long enough for his skeleton to start creaking and his knees to protest and not even then was he able to move because there was something wreaking havoc in his chest and he reached for his portal gun to get himself out of there but he'd left it in his garage like the fool he was.

Fool.

Idiot.

Rick had learned math by the tender age of six. He'd learned complex algorithms before he was ten. He mastered eleven or so languages and he could tell people to go fuck themselves in another twelve and he'd done a bunch of shit they said couldn't be done and he'd told them to go fuck themselves and that he was tired of their small empty minds and all this time his mind was just as empty, just as blank, because if he'd possessed even a speck of intelligence he could have predicted how this would pan out.

The world had been upended in the way the world was always upended, by someone leaving. Usually it was him. He left. Rick was a leaver. Because it wasn't worth it, because there wasn't anything convincing him to stay, to bother. He had to do the same thing now. Nothing had changed. He was still a leaver. He would leave this disaster as well, close the door upon his fickle, fickle mind and anything he could get his hands on.

_Leave._

Beth was already discussing what kind of housing there was in the mid west.

Was Morty moving to the _mid west?_

_Leave._

What the hell was wrong with him? Why would he leave his life here?

_Goddamn it, leave!_

He left.

* * *

It took a week before the phone call came through. It was Beth, naturally. “Dad?” she quivered, audibly sniveling.

Rick sat up, ignoring the empty bottle that clacked down onto the metal floor of the ship. “Uh, yeah,” he managed, clearing his throat. “I'm here, I'm here.”

“We've been so worried about you! Morty said you were going to some far off planet to sell some plant or whatever, and then you didn't come back-”

Rubbing at his good eye, Rick then peered out the unwashed glass in the ship's ceiling. The horseshoe nebula. Sighing, he laid back down on the filthy gray carpet, Beth still chattering away via speaker phone.

Rick turned his head, sick of the sparkling lights of foreign galaxies. A pair of Morty's old sneakers were still tucked beneath his seat, stained with oil spills and sticky from alcohol. Formerly white soles had turned purple and then black, and Morty refused to throw them away because he'd bought them only a month ago and if he didn't get to wear them for at least a while then he would have wasted all that money.

Rick scolded him for buying them and Morty argued back, “It's _my_ money, I should get to do whatever I want with it,” and that shut Rick up because of course he could do whatever with them, he could do whatever with whatever he wanted because that was apparently how Rick worked these days, a so called relentless businessman that took orders from his grandson. Despite that the latter didn't notice it. Rick was always reluctant to think of Morty as dumb, because he wasn't. But he had to be at least some kind of thoughtless not to notice the flashing red arrows, perched atop Rick's skull. A giant, infallible lever that said “push me!”.

Lately Rick had been buying him things. Small things at first. His favorite candy. Tickets to an interstellar, 8-hour long play that Morty wanted to sit through for some godforsaken reason. He'd bought it for them and hadn't thought much of it because he had money and as far as he could work out, he'd have no use for it when he was dead.

Same thing every time; presenting the gift, Morty protesting, Rick shrugging, Morty coolly inquiring into the thing, Rick replying, Morty shifting in his seat, Rick insisting nicely, Morty politely agreeing, all while somehow berating Rick for spending money on the thing. But Rick wasn't spending money on the thing, he was spending money on Morty.

* * *

 

Two years ago. Two years ago, and now Morty had distanced himself like Rick had always told him to do, all while meaning the complete opposite.

“You should go,” breathed into the brown head of hair that was resting on his chest, turned into hating the sight of his bedroom door, closed.

For two years his bedroom door had been closed, aside from the occasional visit by Summer as she asked for a place to stash her cigarettes. He lent her the right drawer in his desk. They'd been collecting dust for a while now. Apparently she'd been cutting back.

Morty, perched on the left side of the sofa, licked the tip of his finger and turned the page. He slid the book up higher in his lap, then scratched absentmindedly with his pen in his hair as he considered the latest paragraph. Jotting something down. This was his life now. And there was no place in it for Rick.

That same evening Beth made a pot roast and gathered all of them around the kitchen table.

Rick, who'd been with his toes in another galaxy had been pulled back from the green portal with a resilient jerk on the collar of his lab coat, his daughter hissing in his ear. “Dad, you're coming. Morty's only staying for a couple of days.”

So he'd dusted off his least dirty shirt and had taken his usual seat by the door opening. Half a table away from the roast, and half a table away from his entire world. Nonplussed, Morty started on the meat, sliding it off the skewer and expertly cutting it with the dull knife.

“Soo...” Beth smiled. “What's her name?”

Putting on a shit show of denial, Morty had a bite to eat before asking, “Who?”

Summer snorted. “ _'Who?'_ Nice.”

Raising his voice for the first time since sitting down, Rick chimed in. “Y-yeah, I mean, if you're gonna-, if you're gonna lie, Morty,” and he had a hard time meeting Morty's eyes over the steamed vegetables, those formal eyes that used to smile at him, the eyes that used to search for Rick the first thing they did upon entering a room, “Do it properly.”

Sighing, Morty reached for his glass. “Anna,” he muttered, still holding on to it. “We've been dating for,” he shrugged, “A-almost two years I guess.”

Scowling, Jerry put the potato he'd been peeling until then down on his empty plate. “You've been seeing this girl for _two years_ , and you're only getting around to telling us now?”

Rick sat still in his chair, silently mashing his potatoes with his fork. Making sure that each crumb was flat, not looking up until he was sure he wouldn't spew atrocities in front of Beth.

Confrontation, later on. Cooped up in the garage, out of habit.

“Two years, huh?” Rick said, not knowing where it came from just that it was gushing, all of it. It was coming to an end, wrapping up, and he'd see it through.

“Yeah,” Morty stated, biting the inside of his lip.

“Spit it out,” Rick prompted, having seen the gnawing a thousand times, sure of what it meant.

“I thought it would be a good way to get over you,” Morty offered, clenching his jaw.

“Happy you found something that works for you,” Rick replied hotly, unsure of where to look. “Y-you're glowing, Morty,” he added.

Sitting back in his chair, Morty shrugged. “W-we can't all, just-, just, drink our sorrows away.” He'd put it out there. “S-sorr-,” he started, wringing his hands on his legs, then changing his mind, straightening up. Shaking his head a bit, he then started again. “B-being with her makes me feel normal,” he said, looking briefly at Rick then looking away, to see if this particular grenade would hit.

Rick rolled his eyes. “Seven billion people on the planet, and you think that there's a single thing people do that could be considered -EURRP- _normal._ ”

Blushing a very tentative pink, Morty frowned. “A-and she doesn't doesn't make me feel like an idiot.”

“Yeah well she seems g-great, Morty.” Burping again. “I mean, if she doesn't talk to you like a toddler, y-you should definitely marry her, I mean-, that's the only logical conclusion.”

Morty clenched his fists. “I w-wasn't gonna marry her. Not that it's any of your business anyway.”

Rick took a swig of the bottle, arching a brow, “Y-you've made that clear, M-Morty.”

Quiet, like a drug, spread through-out the room. Morty sighed, once, and there was nothing Rick wouldn't sacrifice in order to return to his room, years earlier. The last time they'd been together, tired, whole, Morty wearing one of his old shirts, his head resting heavily on Rick's sunken in chest. Rick would have drawn him in closer to get a whiff of his shampoo, of his sleep-spent skin.

He wouldn't ask him to leave.

 


End file.
